


Dalliance

by Nebulad



Series: Mien'harel [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Halamshiral, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the strict Orlesian etiquette tying their hands, Tabris could only nod tersely at <i>shem</i> they would rather spit at. It gave them this wonderful <i>brooding</i> look, and when paired with the suit that the lovely Señora Montilyet had been so kind as to provide…</p><p>Zevran didn’t even <i>care</i> that the Inquisitor was looking around for some assassin with their eye set on Celene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dalliance

Gahruil was like a fairytale prince, and Zevran couldn’t even pretend like it didn’t affect him. When they travel, it is as if the Blight never ended— they wear their scavenged armour and remain bloody and dirty for days at a time. While that certainly has its own charm, in a grunting Ferelden sort of way (and if he was not fond of the grunting or the Ferelden, then he would have left ages ago), _this_ is something else entirely.

They were guests of the Inquisition at Celene’s Halamshiral Ball. Gahruil couldn’t have been angrier if they came face to face with Arl Howe once again— at least they would have the benefit of violence. With the strict Orlesian etiquette tying their hands, they could only nod tersely at _shem_ they would rather spit at. It gave them this wonderful _brooding_ look, and when paired with the suit that the lovely Señora Montilyet had been so kind as to provide…

He didn’t even _care_ that the Inquisitor was looking around for some assassin with their eye set on Celene.

The colours of the Grey Wardens were immensely flattering, and though he was glad they were not so dedicated to their uniform… blue was simply a good colour for them. The outfit was fit tightly to their body (and what an outfit, a tailcoat and all almost like a civilized elf), and they’d allowed Zevran to put braids in the loose bun they wore. They avoided the dancefloor— he would get them there yet, but they had all night— preferring to perch on the railing of a balcony and scowl.

People addressing them as _Warden Commander Tabris_ really only made the whole thing better.

 _Why do you keep looking at me like that?_ They broke from their brooding to finally look at him properly— _he_ had possessed actual formalwear, and so Señora Montilyet’s intervention had been unnecessary— but without the self-conscious air he’d expected. They even went as far as to look amused, as if he were being funny.

“Why do you _think_ I’m looking at you?” he asked from his spot beside them. Tonight, his role was to interpret for the Commander— well, more accurately for the Orlesians, since they were the ones unable to understand the Common Sign. He had been doing very little actual work, as Gahruil felt no need to be charming or charismatic even in a ballroom setting. After the first few rounds of _hello_ and _I’ve been staying in what’s left of the Alienage,_ shockingly people stopped coming around.

They hopped off the balcony, landing with a click on the marble and turning their back on the ballroom. _Because you like seeing me squirm._ He shrugged, slipping his hands under their coat. They weren’t wrong— one of the many wonderful things about the Warden was how they seemed to never _settle_. They were dedicated, yes, and loyal as their hound, but they were always _surprised_ that Zevran reciprocated.

“I wouldn’t call it squirming. You are more of a blusher,” he informed them.

_Ass._

“Am I wrong?” he asked, and they nudged him.

 _Can I ask you something?_ He nodded, his fingers working gently across the braids. How often had he told them that they would look wonderful if they let him braid their hair? The burden of being right so often. _What’s a…_ They paused, then leaned in. “...dalliance?”

Oh. _“Amore_ , you mustn’t play with a man’s heart like this,” he scolded.

 _So it_ is _something dirty? I heard some servants talking about humans and I couldn’t tell if it was dirty or a dance._ And didn’t they just look so pleased with themself that they’d been close to figuring it out on their own?

“A little of both,  _amore._ If you were ready for a break, I could do a… practical demonstration,” he offered, shifting a little closer than was proper (in Orlais, at least). The very tips of their ears turned pink and they suddenly had trouble focusing on his face.

 _How dirty are we talking?_ An elf of such little faith in him.

“Trust me, Tabris. A proper Orlesian dalliance would never end in actual sex.” At a public ball, at least, but no need to worry them. Find a quiet alcove and he could kill an hour no better spent trying to fend off the nobility. Tragedy, should the Inquisition have need of them, but... oh well.

**Author's Note:**

> Isabela and Zevran bond over trying to find the perfect cold smoulder. Anyway, another underwhelming work for a week I thought would turn out better. [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) where I occasionally write something good and always reblog something good anyway. Also this is day 3 which was a nsfw prompt but yall know I don't write smut so.


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